


Not With a Bang

by alloutforthewar



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-24
Updated: 2016-03-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 17:07:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6337750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alloutforthewar/pseuds/alloutforthewar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A ficlet based on the prompt "Do you… well… I mean… I could give you a massage?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not With a Bang

He trundles out of the office yawning, driven towards the kitchen due to the fact that he can’t remember the last time he ate. It’s dark outside and he’s not quite sure how that happened.

She’s standing at the kitchen table, head bowed, her right hand digging in to her left shoulder, her coat still on. She’s back already? He clears his throat, runs a hand through his hair.

“Hey.”

She raises her head slowly, turns to face him, eyes taking in his pajama bottoms and yesterdays shirt. He shuffles self consciously on his feet, realises he probably should have showered today.

“Long day?” he asks, eyes still on the hand that is kneading her own muscles. She sighs. “Do you… well… I mean… I could give you a massage? If you want?”

At that she barks out a laugh, harsh and dry, and drops her hand to her side.

“If I want?” she repeats absently. “Mulder, what I want is to get home after a sixteen hour day and not have the dishes still in the sink. Maybe the drive shovelled, or the latch on the door fixed. Maybe some sort of food in the house that I didn’t prepare myself. Or even a small amount of the laundry done. I can’t…” She trails off, her eyes drifting up to the ceiling and he feels the pit of his stomach give way.

He was going to, he was going to do all of those things. He was. Time just got away from him, that’s all, but he still can. He can fix it. 

He moves past her with purpose, grabbing his dinner dishes from the table and starting water in the sink.

“I know Scully,” he says. “I meant to. I mean, I’ll do it now. You hungry? I’ll… I think we have canned soup in the pantry.” She shakes her head.

“You mean to every day Mulder, but I can’t live like this anymore.”

He freezes, staring into the sink until it threatens to overflow, then reaches out and shuts the water off. The sudden silence is all encompassing, reverberating.

“Scully,” he croaks, but she’s picked up her bag and is heading for the stairs.

“Goodnight, Mulder,” she murmurs, and he stands there as the door shuts upstairs, letting his fingers prune in water that steadily becomes cold.


End file.
